Ripening: The Missing Chapter in the Story of a Good Life?

Aging is an opportunity to step into the fullness of who we are. Oprah Winfrey

While attending a cocktail party of sorts, my energy flagged. What tires me is feeling pressured to engage in a great deal of small talk. Looking for relief, I noticed a man I admire as a friend hanging out in the kitchen, quickly I headed out to share some meaningful dialogue. 

My friend was a smart guy, a bold guy, a funny guy, a go-getter, an adventurer, a doctor, a truth teller.  We were on some of the same boards and organizations. Immediately we started sharing some of our adventures while we were in the military.  As I said, he could tell a good story and was full of life. 

After a while I asked how he was doing now that he had retired.  He grimaced.  Trying to decipher what the grimace meant, I asked if he was bored.  He shifted his head back and forth…as in not really sure.

Perplexed and somewhat concerned, I asked him how his woodworking hobby was going. Still travelling? Still seeing the kids and gkids? Check. Check. Check.

Still.  The shift was palpable when my friend started thinking about his present life.  he took off his glasses. Rubbed his eyes. The life drained out of him. He looked different, older, not even the same guy. Embarrassed about his predicament. And just stood there looking at me.

At the time I didn't have anything to offer. Just a nod. But believe me I've been thinking about this aging situation. Looking for guidance. Not just in the research but in our cultural narratives which I think impact us more than we realize.

What are the stories, the ancient myths, and scripts we follow at this point in our journey?   We long for a story of some sort that helps us understand who we are, what we’re here for, and how to make sense of these years. As one woman, a shadow of younger self, recently expressed with vacant, wondering eyes, "I don't know why I'm here."

It didn't matter that another friend and I tried to remind the woman of her past contributions. She agreed that she had done some things, perhaps of value. But so what? That was the meaning I took from the slight shrug of her shoulders. Why was she here now? She wasn't sure there was much reason to continue living...except maybe to see her grandchildren marry.

The story we’ve been given in much of modern Western life is a simple one: grow up, work hard, succeed, retire. Then… what? Buy a beach chair and try to enjoy it all while the clock winds down? That pleasure is short-lived and devoid of meaning and passion.

It’s no wonder that many people in their later years feel blah, irritable, restless or even lost. They’ve lived a long, full life—and yet, the script seems to run out just when they need it most.

It’s time to write a new chapter to the human narrative. Or maybe, to dust off an old one we’ve forgotten. I propose that we call this chapter of our lives: the call to ripening.

Not every society leaves people floundering in their later years. In fact, many cultures have rich, thoughtful roadmaps for aging—maps that honor the transitions and offer meaning right to the end. I thought about this when John was hiking with some friends in the Himalayas.  He took pictures of the wandering ascetics who intrigued him.

In India, it’s all laid out in the Hindu system. There’s a time to be a student, a time of life to be a householder and family man, and then a gradual relinquishment of responsibilities and one starts to turn inward.  The last stage is when a person seeks spiritual liberation and lives very simply, usually detaching completely from material life.

What I find so compelling about this model is how natural it is. It honors the energy of youth, the duty and devotion of midlife, and then—here’s the key—it welcomes the softening and simplification that can come later. It expects it. It says, “Yes, there is a sacred season when you let go, look inward, and walk closer to your divine essence.”

In the West, we’ve often clung so tightly to productivity that we’ve forgotten how to let ourselves ripen.

You’ve probably heard of the “hero’s journey" (I've spoken of it and even followed it as a blueprint of sorts for my own life). It's that classic story pattern described by mythologist Joseph Campbell. In it, the hero hears a call, leaves the familiar, faces trials and tests, and finally triumphs and returns home, transformed.

That pattern maps beautifully onto many of our lives. We set out with big dreams, we work hard, we face setbacks and heartbreaks, we learn to persevere. And if we’re lucky, we find some measure of success or peace.

But there’s one part of the journey that often gets overlooked: what happens after the return? After the battles are over, the kids are grown, the nameplate is taken off the office door. What then?

Campbell warned that reintegrating into ordinary life is the hero’s most difficult task. “The returning hero,” he wrote, “must survive the impact of the world.” It’s a battle not of swords or spreadsheets—but of meaning, purpose, and presence.

That’s where I believe ripening comes in.

Let’s clear up one idea about ripening.  My aunt once told me that ripening means a fruit is about to rot. I live in fruit country among the cherries, apples, and pears.  Ripening is when the fruit is sweetest.

Ripening as a stage of development is not about fading into irrelevance. It’s not about sitting in front of the television waiting for time to pass.

Ripening is about becoming more fully yourself. It’s when your sharp edges soften, your insights deepen, your ego relaxes, and your presence becomes quietly nourishing to others.

In the orchard, ripened fruit is the most flavorful and generous. It nourishes. It seeds new life.

And in the human soul, the same is true.

Ripening is when you no longer need to prove yourself. You begin to ask different questions: What can I pass on? How can I be of service? Who do I want to bless?

You may be slowing down, but your presence becomes more powerful.

Many people I talk to are living much longer than they expected. They’ve finished the official tasks—worked the job, raised the family, made their contributions—and they look around and think, “No one told me what to do with these next 20 or 30 years.”

This can feel frightening—or freeing. There’s no script. 

Without a clear script, we’re invited to listen to a quieter voice. We’re no longer being pulled by ambition or pushed by deadlines. We begin, perhaps for the first time, to pay attention to the inner life.

This is the sacred opportunity of ripening. And for those of us willing to embrace it, it can be the richest chapter of all.

Here’s what I think ripening looks like though it may not be the same for everyone:

You’re more interested in being than doing.

You find joy in small things: birdsong, warm bread, the hand of a grandchild.

You’re less reactive. More compassionate. (I think is the primary work of ripening.)

You’ve made peace with imperfections—your own and others’.

You bless more than you advise.

You listen more than you speak.

You’re less interested in arguing and more interested in understanding.

And you may find that you are no longer the hero of the story—but the guide, the presence, the quiet strength in someone else’s tale.

Ripening doesn’t mean stepping out of the story. It means stepping into a new kind of fullness. And it continues all the way to the end.

If I had to guess, I’d say these could be good ripening practices for us wannabees and like any practice, it must start with commitment and intention:

• Walk in nature. Let nature center you.

• Write or tell your stories. Squeeze out the emotion, the meaning, and wisdom.

• Listen deeply. Be curious about others. Ask more questions than you answer.

• Simplify. Clear your physical belongings to make room for peace. (Yes, I need help here. I'm still looking at my mother's stuff and John's parents and even some grandparent stuff! And the books...oh my...)

• Serve quietly. Even one kind word a day may be enough. (One of my ripened friends makes a list each evening of 3 people he will send an encouraging message to the next day. If you're not sure how you'd like to serve, perhaps my blog Sleeping With Bread: Discerning Your small "p" Purpose can help.)

• Celebrate presence. Don’t overly plan for tomorrow. Leave some room in your mind for what shows up today.

• Lastly, find ripened people in books or podcasts or around you in your life. I am fortunate to have several in my own life. I want to hang out with these ripened ones however I can. That's the easiest, fastest way to become who you want to be.

  
  

In some ways, it’s what the whole journey has been preparing us for—not just the big accomplishments, but the fuller capacity to be present, loving, forgiving, spacious, and free.

How might we journey to the Good life in the last chapter of our lives…seeing it as an opportunity for ripening?

After I wrote this blog, I happened to notice a short piece written by Franciscan Priest, Richard Rohr. Ripening as Rohr describes it isn’t about winning at life’s finish line—it’s about becoming. It’s a slow, sacred process of letting go, softening, and growing inwardly deeper and freer. As we age, we’re invited to move beyond youthful striving and step into a quieter hope—one that doesn’t cling to specific outcomes but opens to mystery. Ripening means learning to live with ambiguity, contradictions, and grace. We trade certainty for wisdom, defense for surrender, and arrive—if we allow it—at a deeper self…

And even if the first parts of your life were not so heroic, you can still ripen in the last part of the journey. That nonsensical deterministic perspective that we are never going to amount to more than the sum total of whatever terrible things might have happened to us in the past needs to be put in the trash bin. As I have mentioned before, my father was unhinged in many ways in his early life, but he totally changed in the last chapter of his life. He became a servant. A total shift from his big dreams...most of which had gone sideways. He delighted in cooking for others, in sharing a little bounty from his garden, in rubbing my mother's feet. His primary work (he wore his suitcoat when he did it) - and what gave him much delight, was calling people on a gargantuan birthday list he kept. He sang "Happy Birthday" with many pauses for effect - then ended by spontaneously expressing his joy for their life. That's what people had lined up to tell me about at his funeral. He usually had at least one person to three people he called each day. He took it very seriously and he was right to do so. People at this funeral tearfully told me how often he was the only one who remembered them. One said, "Now I dread to think of my next birthday; he won't be here to call."

And remember the story of the African violet woman. The one who drew her curtains, never went out, and felt totally depressed as she waited for death to come. She had been an important woman once. Now the little effort she made was to water a few African violets in her home. She needed for nothing. Her servants took care of most of the chores. What use was she really? At the recommendation of a famous psychiatrist, who had been sought out by her nephew because she seemed so despondent, she started growing African violets out of her own greenhouse and giving them to people for special occasions in their lives (new babies, new homes, birthdays, losses). Her life changed. She had a reason to live, a contribution to make, a way to serve that mattered. She never even needed to leave a card or say anything. People knew when they saw the African violets on their doorstep who had thought of them. Her obituary recognized her as the African Violet Woman who had spread much joy through her lovely, little, living gifts. The obit didn't say much about the first chapters of her life, what an important woman she had been in her early years. It was the last part of her life, the last chapter of her story, that moved others and herself as well. In the Milwaukee Journal, a feature article appeared with a large headline that read “African Violet Queen of Milwaukee Dies, Mourned by Thousands.”

And lastly one of the most moving tributes I heard at a funeral a few years ago was the tearful story of a grown man who routinely stopped by his mother's house before going to work for a cup of coffee and a cheerful smile. But it was mostly just her presence, her mere being, that set him off for a good day. I knew her too - only met her in her nineties. I felt that calm and gentle joy around her as well. Just her being made a difference to many of us.

John took this picture in India of wandering ascetics fulfilling the last spiritual chapter of their lives

In an earlier blog, I mentioned my mother saying that to age well in the latter stage of life you need to accept a humbler version of yourself. My sense is that to age well in the latter stage of life we must not just accept but ardently nudge forward a humbler version of ourselves. Humbler not in the sense of thinking less of ourselves but of thinking of ourselves less.

It's never to late to be what you might have been. George Eliot (and quoted often by Oprah)

Here is a test to find whether your mission on Earth is finished: If you're alive, it isn't. attributed to Richard Bach